Asher received the next ghost mail the moment he stepped off Marrick's Tower property.
[Ghost Broker Union]:
Progress report: still alive?
The first line read.
'Define alive' He thought.
[Congrats! First Contract Signed.]
Reward: 1 winning lottery code
Returns automatically spent on: broker tools, wardrobe & residence upgrade.
Remaining balance: $0.00. Enjoy your enhanced lifestyle!
Asher stared at the mail.
"What...?"
By the time he made it back to his apartment, the damage was already done.
His threadbare hoodie was gone, replaced by a closet full of tailored jackets, black turtlenecks, and trousers that screamed expensive assassin. His busted coffee machine had been upgraded to something that could probably summon espresso using incantations.
The couch? Replaced with a matte leather. The leakages had been fixed, faucet replaced. The floors had been changed and the walls had been repainted.
It was still a shoebox. Only a more expensive looking one.
"Okay," he muttered. "That's not creepy at all."
He stared at a pair of suede dress shoes perched neatly by the door.
"…I didn't even sign a lease."
---
The next morning, Asher stood outside a crumbling townhouse on the edge of Halberd Row. The kind of place that looked like it was constantly auditioning for a haunting.
Alton Greaves, one of Marrick's former lawyers, had retired here after a very public mental breakdown. Rumor said he'd defended one too many clients who didn't stay dead.
If Marrick had a hand in it or not, Asher didn't know. And he didn't want to find out.
Greaves opened the door with one bleary eye and a mutter: "You've got his eyes. Vulture eyes."
Asher paused. "That's...new. I'm here on behalf of Mr. Marrick."
After digging up the courtyard of the tower for hours, he finally had Marrick's seal in hand. He showed it.
Greaves flinched. "He's dead."
"Yeah, well. That didn't stop him from sending me."
Inside, the place reeked of paper rot and regret. Files were stacked as high as fortresses, layered with a thick coat of dust. Greaves muttered half-formed sentences and shuffled to a shelf in the corner.
"I didn't push him," the man whispered. "I didn't push anyone. Vincent said he'd take care of it."
That made Asher freeze. "Take care of what, exactly?"
Greaves handed an address over along with a key. "He left something... in the vault there, at Beck, Ronin & Co. But it's cursed. I couldn't open it."
Beck. Arthur Beck was Marrick's other lawyer.
Asher took the key.
"Cursed by who?"
"Marrick," Greaves croaked.
---
Asher sat stiffly in the reception area of Beck, Ronin & Co. The air smelled like recycled air conditioning and too much paper. Everything was beige, from the walls to the assistant's blouse to the outdated floral carpeting.
The receptionist, a woman with evenly dyed auburn hair and the vocal calm of someone who'd been saying "He'll see you shortly" since 1982, finally gestured.
"Mr. Beck will see you now."
He rose, adjusted the blazer he hadn't asked for but somehow owned, and stepped through the glass door into an office that looked like it hadn't changed since Marrick had been alive.
Stacks of yellowing legal files sat across the desk. The blinds were drawn, casting shadows over bookshelves that sagged under the weight of decades.
Behind the desk was Arthur Beck, once the top estate lawyer in the district. Now, he looked like a statue of himself. Sunken eyes, liver-spotted hands, and a slight tremor in his jaw that made his words slide together.
"Greaves called." He blinked up at Asher. "You're... Marrick's boy?"
"I'm not his anything," Asher said. "But yes. I'm the executor now. Or... one of them."
Beck's gaze flickered.
"You read the codicil?"
"I've seen enough," Asher said. "I'm here for the rest of it."
Arthur Beck hesitated, then slowly opened a leather folder. His hands shook slightly, but his voice stayed calm.
"He was... meticulous. Almost paranoid. There's a clause about stored items, Section Nine. Says only the executor can access them. In person."
He turned the folder so Asher could see. Neat, typed pages. Margins filled with initials. Marrick's signature pressed deep into the paper like he meant to leave a scar.
"There's a vault."
"A vault?" Asher frowned. "Here?"
Beck nodded. "Every serious firm has one," Beck said softly. "But Marrick paid to have his own."
"Greaves gave you the key?"
"Right." Asher muttered.
"Greaves kept the keys. The vault was entrusted to me. Only you can open it."
He stood up slowly, and shuffled to a wall panel behind a row of tax law volumes. After a mechanical click, the shelves swung open to reveal a small steel vault door set into concrete.
Beck gestured with the key. "Open it. You'll need to sign the acknowledgment of review form before taking anything out."
Asher hesitated. He didn't even know what he was doing here, except following Marrick's instructions.
The lock turned with a stubborn click. Cold air, dry and stale, brushed his face as the door opened inward.
Inside, it was smaller than he expected, only a few shelves. A leather briefcase. A sealed scroll tube. And one very thin manila envelope, sitting by itself like it had something to hide.
Asher turned to ask what the protocol was, but Beck wasn't looking at him.
The lawyer had sat back down heavily, head bowed, fingers pressed to his temple like a migraine was crawling out of his skull.
"Is this what you wanted?" Beck muttered, barely audible. "It's done. I'm done. I kept it all sealed like you asked."
Asher frowned. "Who are you talking to?"
Beck looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed but lucid, for a moment.
"I... I wasn't. Just old habits. Marrick...he had a way of getting into your head. Even now."
He coughed and reached for a folder labeled Postmortem Transactions, Non-Contested. His fingers fumbled the pen.
"Sign here. It confirms you received the documents and that Beck, Ronin & Co. is released of legal liability post-access."
"Liability for what?"
Beck didn't answer. He just looked away.
Asher signed.
Outside, the afternoon sunlight hit him. Too bright. Too normal. He pocketed the key and wondered, not for the first time, what Marrick had expected him to find.
---
By the end of the day, Asher hadn't yet come up with a way to get to Vincent Hale. But it seemed Marrick had.
Staring down at his phone where an unfamiliar voice had just introduced themself as Vincent Hale, Asher's mouth went dry.
Of course Vincent Hale would be calling now.
He finally understood Marrick's strange instructions.
-Put on a suit.
-Visit both my lawyers.
-Retrieve the folder and briefcase.
-Don't open either.
-Make sure you get photographed
Marrick surely knew Vincent would hear about it, even twenty years after. That someone was poking around Marrick's past.
He knew one, or both his lawyers were dirty.
Was it all just plot to lure Vincent Hale?
Suddenly, he understood what his job was.
Putting the phone back to his ear, Asher cleared his throat.
"Mr Hale. The name's Knox and I think we should meet."
"How about... the Tower? Marrick's?"
'The same tower you pushed him off?' Asher was tempted to ask, but he suppressed it.
The thing with murderers, they had a similar pattern of killing.
Asher knew Vincent wanted to get rid of him now. In just a day, Marrick had made him piss off one of the biggest real estate tycoons in the country.
Marrick knew how this would play out, because he knew Vincent best. He was using Asher's life, to lure Vincent back to the tower.
Asher...he was hired bait.
"Being a ghost broker is really tasking."